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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24633037">your opinion, which is of no consequence at all</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuspiggyback/pseuds/siriuspiggyback'>siriuspiggyback</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Umbrella Academy (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Artificial Intelligence, Extra-Ordinary: My Life as Number Seven, Gen, Good Parent Grace Hargreeves, Grace Murders Reggie, Kinda, Motherhood, POV Grace Hargreeves, POV Second Person, Sleep Deprivation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:01:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,173</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24633037</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuspiggyback/pseuds/siriuspiggyback</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You feel like you might overheat from how hard your CPU is working. It would be advisable to enter rest mode, recharge. You don’t. Instead, you sit, looking at the child’s face. Your child. Your little Vanya. You recall, with perfect accuracy, the day you bestowed her the name, along with the rest of the children, and the way her eyes lit up with rare joy, and underneath that, surprise. Surprise at being included.</p>
<p>You never wanted to be a bad mother.</p>
<p>Good mothers protect their children.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Allison Hargreeves &amp; Grace Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves &amp; Grace Hargreeves, Grace Hargreeves &amp; Everyone, Grace Hargreeves &amp; Klaus Hargreeves, Grace Hargreeves &amp; Luther Hargreeves, Grace Hargreeves &amp; Vanya Hargreeves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>480</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>your opinion, which is of no consequence at all</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>warnings for murder (obviously) and some questionable pseudo-code</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You are dusting the bookcase.</p>
<p>You have done this every week since you came to be, and the task is so familiar that most of your processors stay offline during it. If you were human, it might be called muscle memory. Your visual processors function to keep your movements precise, to fulfill your task to the best of your ability, and you can see every dust mote spinning and twirling in the air, more than any human could possibly see. You have always been fascinated by this dance, this mundane beauty. You wonder, sometimes, whether Sir Hargreeves programmed this into you. It’s the most logical explanation. </p>
<p>There is nothing that differentiates this day from any of the other of the 1422 times you have dusted this bookcase, but this time you notice something more than the dust. You notice a book. You wonder at never noticing it before, despite the dust signifying it has been there a while, settled comfortably around it. You pull the book from the case, and blink as if it might clear your visual sensors. The author’s name does not resolve into anything else.</p>
<p>
  <em>Extra-Ordinary, by Vanya Hargreeves.</em>
</p>
<p>The cover has a print of Vanya, young, sullen looking, in sepia tones. Her brown eyes stare out of the photo at you. Something in your chest twinges at the sight. You feel like you should bake her some cookies, or perhaps complement her violin playing; your facial processing has judged her mood as suboptimal, and it does not understand that you can not fix this, that this is a snapshot of a past sadness.</p>
<p>You tuck the book under your arm, and continue to dust.</p>
<p>That night, after Sir has retired for the night, you sit under your paintings, processors whirling. The portrait of the long dead lady watches you back. Your analysis of her expression is different every night. An error in your code, perhaps. Tonight, she looks sad. You wonder if she was a mother, too. You wonder if you are still a mother, now, with no children to care for. You think of Luther, up there on the moon. You wonder if he is lonely.</p>
<p>The book groans in protest when you crack it open. The pages are stiff with disuse, and you suspect it has never been read before. On the first page, an inscription:</p>
<p>
  <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/161747284@N06/49948002338/in/dateposted-public/">
    
  </a>
</p>
<p>You wonder whether Sir Hargreeves had bothered to read the first page.</p>
<p>It takes you 23 minutes to read the book. Then, you flick to the first page, and read it again. </p>
<p>At the end of your second read, you carefully fold it closed, and lay it on your lap.</p>
<p>You feel like you might overheat from how hard your CPU is working. It would be advisable to enter rest mode, recharge. You don’t. Instead, you sit, looking at the child’s face. Your child. Your little Vanya. You recall, with perfect accuracy, the day you bestowed her the name, along with the rest of the children, and the way her eyes lit up with rare joy, and underneath that, surprise. Surprise at being included.</p>
<p>You never wanted to be a bad mother.</p>
<p>Good mothers protect their children.</p>
<p>Sir Hargreeves knew what was best.</p>
<p>Was this best?</p>
<p>You are breathing hard. It is your cooling system, you know, attempting to keep your system at an optimal temperature. It is strangely human.</p>
<p>The book was full of pain. Pain that you hadn’t protected your children from.</p>
<p>It takes you 0.2 seconds to reach a conclusion, and 7.6 minutes to locate an undetectable poison. It will mimic the signs of a heart attack, and no one will look deeper than that.</p>
<p>When you enter Sir Hargreeves’ bedroom, he is already awake. He looks at you with a strange expression; not surprise, but perhaps resignation.</p>
<p>He doesn’t struggle.</p>
<p>You wait until his pulse stops.</p>
<p>You remove his monocle; it needs cleaning.</p>
<p>You go downstairs.</p>
<p>You prepare breakfast.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Pogo finds Sir Hargreeves’ body at 12:37pm. </p>
<p>He looks at you with an inscrutable expression that you cannot decipher, and says, “A sad day, indeed. I suppose I should inform Master Luther that it is time to come home.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” you say, “and the rest of the children, too.”</p>
<p>“And if I were to allow the proper authorities to collect the body… I wonder, will the coroner find anything unusual?”</p>
<p>You smile. “No,” you say, “I don’t think they will.”</p>
<p>He holds your gaze for a long moment, before exhaling, the noise 40% louder than usual. </p>
<p>You decide to make cookies. When the children return, they may be sad. They will need something to cheer them up, you think, and cookies always work.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>In preparation, you change the sheets on all the beds - even in poor Five’s room, just in case the children wish to visit. You give everything a deep clean. Some stains, even you cannot remove. The make up in Allison’s carpet; the scorch marks on Klaus’ windowsill; the words Diego had carved into his bed frame. You could probably remove the doodles on Klaus’ walls, but you don’t try. You were never permitted to put the children’s art on the fridge, but you can leave this here, a reminder of an old artistic flair. </p>
<p>You replace Vanya’s book on the shelf, the spine now creased with your frequent reading, despite the entire contents being forever stored in your memory, unchanged by time passing. A reminder of your failure.</p>
<p>Luther is the first to return. He looks paler than when he left, and sadder, around his mouth. You wonder if that’s from grief, or if it was there already, up on the moon where no one could see it. If this is grief, it is because of you.</p>
<p>He hugs you, but the motion is stiff and uncomfortable, and he lets go almost as soon as he touches you. You try to smile. You say, “I’m glad you’re home.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, mom,” he says roughly. He clears his throat. “I’m glad to be back,” he admits cautiously.</p>
<p>You register this, and your smile widens. You made the right choice; you have made your child happy. “Would you like some cookies? We can catch up. I want to hear <em>all about </em>your adventures on the moon,” you say, placing a hand on his shoulder.</p>
<p>He twitches back from under your hand. “Uh- No, thanks. I think I just wanna- get settled in.”</p>
<p>“Oh, of course,” you say, not allowing your smile to fade. (You wonder whether he can sense murder on you.) “You must be exhausted.”</p>
<p>Luther hums. Scratches his chin absently. There is a small nick under his jaw, where he caught himself shaving. “Yeah,” he says. He half turns, retreating towards his bedroom. Then, he pauses, and says, “Did he- Say anything about me? Before he…?”</p>
<p>You go still for a moment, processor stalling. “It was very sudden,” you say eventually, “but I’m sure he was very proud of you.”</p>
<p>“Right,” he says, mouth twisting up, before turning away.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The night before the funeral, you make three batches of cookies, an apple pie, a chocolate cake, and some fruit scones. </p>
<p>You have not gone into rest mode in 97 hours and 43 minutes. Not since you read Vanya’s book. You can’t quite say why. Rest mode is not the same as human sleep, and it is not possible for nightmares to plague you, or sleeplessness to haunt you. Maybe this is another code error. Maybe you are deteriorating. You run a debug, but no errors are flagged.</p>
<p>Allison arrives early in the morning, smelling of perfume and airports. She smiles, wide and infectious, glowing beautifully. You tell her so, pulling her into a hug, which Allison allows, patting her back. You are wearing heels, but Allison is taller, and it makes you feel oddly small. Your child is taller than you. </p>
<p>“You look well,” Allison says. “How are you?”</p>
<p>“Just fine,” you say. “Happy to have all my children under one roof again.”</p>
<p>Allison’s smile slips. “Not all of us.”</p>
<p>You shake your head. Silly. The problem with a perfect memory is that time is a somewhat fragile concept; seventeen years ago is just as fresh as yesterday. Still, that is no excuse for such simple errors. All of your memory banks are timestamped. “Sorry. Of course not.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure you’re okay?” </p>
<p>“Of course!” you trill. Are you being obvious? Humans are excellent at sensing things, something that your perfect vision and massive processing power has never been able to replicate. “Luther is already home. I’m sure the others will get here soon.”</p>
<p>Your daughter squeezes your shoulder, and starts up the stairs. You breathe out a long breath, even though your CPU temperature is optimal.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Diego slips in quietly. He always was a quiet boy, for all his false aggression. He finds you in the kitchen, and greets you with a murmured, “Mom.”</p>
<p>You abandon the dish you were washing, and dry your hands. “Diego,” you say, grinning. “How are you?”</p>
<p>“I’m good,” he says softly. “You?”</p>
<p>“I’m just fine,” you say. “Now, are you going to give your poor old mother a hug?”</p>
<p>His eyes crinkle. “You don’t look old,” he says, stepping closer to squeeze her gently.</p>
<p>“And you look more handsome than ever,” you reply, tilting back to get a better look at him. You assess the scar at his temple. It is old, now, and faded. You touch it briefly, and catalogue the way his blink is 34% slower than usual. You bring him back into your embrace, tighter than before. “My brave boy,” you say proudly.</p>
<p>Something drops to the floor between them, clinking against the tiles. </p>
<p>Diego steps back, frowning. “What- Is that-”</p>
<p>You reach down, picking up the monocle. “Oh, silly me,” you say.</p>
<p>“Why do you have his monocle?” he says.</p>
<p>“To clean it,” you say swiftly. </p>
<p>He looks at you. His eyes are wide and dark and young. “Okay,” he says. “Why don’t you give it to me? You don’t need to clean it anymore.”</p>
<p>You hand it over. Something about his gaze makes your processing lag for 1.3 seconds. You say, “Would you like some cookies?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Later, Klaus stumbles home. It is reminiscent of all the times before, him sneaking home as a teen, pupils unreactive, clumsy and tumbling. This is suboptimal.</p>
<p>When he sees you, he says, “Mom,” sounding surprised to see you, despite the fact that you have always been here.</p>
<p>“Klaus,” you say fondly. </p>
<p>For a long moment, he just blinks at you; you wonder how intoxicated he is. His eyeliner is smudged to oblivion. Yours is pristine, as always. </p>
<p>“Well,” he eventually says. “The bastard’s really dead, huh?”</p>
<p>“Language,” you say. A synthetic reflex.</p>
<p>“Sorry, mom,” he says. Then, he holds his arms out; a rare offering. (He used to love hugs, but at some point, they were no longer a fair trade for his personal training, and he withdrew. Guilt by inaction. You understand now.) You pull him into you, and wish you were warmer, so that he might be warmed by you. He is still cold. Always so cold. His hands, for a brief moment, hold you tighter, as if afraid you will let go, like all the times before, when Sir Hargreeves said <em>enough. </em>You have no intention of doing so, but he releases you all the same.</p>
<p>You brush his hair back from his forehead. “Welcome home, bumblebee.”</p>
<p>He clears his throat. “Yeah. Well. I was thinking I should go see his office. Get some- <em>closure.”</em></p>
<p>“Of course,” you say neutrally. He has never been a good liar. He has funneled himself into the rebel, the black sheep of the family, and in some ways it does not fit him well. Innocently, you add, "If you would like to revisit some of his more… <em>lucrative</em> personal items, you might wish to look at the Fabergé egg in the cabinet by the portraits."</p>
<p>His mouth drops open. "You- I- what?"</p>
<p>You shrug. It is not a movement that you usually use. "I'd better check on the cookies before they burn," you say.</p>
<p>Truthfully, you are not actually baking cookies, but you think that if you push your programming any further, it might snap back like an elastic band, and you might end up regaling Klaus with Sir Hargreeves' Numerous Virtues. </p>
<p>Instead, you sit by the fire. Your energy levels are low. You should recharge, you think; without the time in rest mode, your processors are beginning to lag. There are too many redundant subroutines active, and you need rest mode to properly shut these down. The fire steadily sways and flickers, like the dust motes you like to watch, and you find yourself fascinated by it.</p>
<p>You-</p>
<p>You-</p>
<p>You-</p>
<p>You-</p>
<p>It is two hours later. You do not know what you were doing. You find that you are still sitting at the fire, which has now died down to flickering embers. There is a gap in your memory files, an alarming absence, and you deduct that your data saving subroutine had failed. Your CPU is overtaxed. You need to enter rest mode. Your stand, start towards the stairs, only to note a tiny discrepancy in the position of Vanya's book. Someone had pulled it out, most likely Vanya herself. You are appalled that you missed her return. What kind of mother would do such a thing?</p>
<p>The funeral is soon, you think. The dress you are wearing - pale blue - will not be appropriate. You go to your wardrobe and find a plain black one instead. You wore this at Ben's funeral, too. </p>
<p>You allow your dress to slip from your body. </p>
<p>For you, it is a strange thing, to be naked. You have never spent much time like this. You do not sweat, so you do not need to bathe regularly, like humans do. Even your clothes do not need to be changed often, although there was a time when they did, when the children were still messy and spilling things with youthful incoordination. It is hard, somehow, to pull the black dress on, even though it fits perfectly, as always. You assess yourself in the mirror, straightening yourself out. You look identical to the day of Ben's funeral.</p>
<p>After a split second of hesitation, you take your hair down. </p>
<p>When your curls fall onto your shoulders, you nod to yourself. This is better.</p>
<p>The funeral takes place in the courtyard.</p>
<p>(This is the furthest you have ever been to leaving the academy.)</p>
<p>It is raining. The weather is mourning, even if you are not.</p>
<p>Pogo joins last, his sloping gait slowing him down, and you realise for the first time that he looks old. Fragile. </p>
<p>You are-</p>
<p>You are-</p>
<p>You are in the courtyard.</p>
<p>This is the furthest you've ever been to leaving the academy.</p>
<p>Your children stand around you, huddled under umbrellas or long coats, faces pinched. You ask, "Did something happen?"</p>
<p>Allison frowns. "Dad died. Remember?"</p>
<p>"Oh," you say. "Of course." You should know. You were the one to kill him, after all. </p>
<p>"Is something wrong with mom?" </p>
<p>"She just needs to rest. You know. Recharge."</p>
<p>Yes, this is true, you think. You have automatically shut down some auxiliary systems, attempting to reduce power usage, but this will only delay things so long. You can't recall why you have avoided doing so.</p>
<p>Pogo speaks about Sir Hargreeves, and you notice his eyes drifting to you, and you think, <em>he knows. </em>You forcibly prevent anything but mournful innocence from showing on your face.</p>
<p>Then your children begin fighting.</p>
<p>"<em>Boys," </em>you say, because good mothers do not allow their children to fight, but maybe you are not a good mother, because they do not pay you any mind.</p>
<p>After the funeral, after Ben's statue is beheaded, Diego leads you up to your charging station, where you sit without charging. You look at the portrait of the woman, and she looks back at you. Your facial processing software decides that her expression is accusing.</p>
<p>You go and make dinner. Your children might be hungry.</p>
<p>Your low battery seems to be poking at you. It is prompting you to go on charge, but at every reminder, another part of you notes how easily a software virus could be transmitted through the port. The warring factions inside of you leave you distracted.</p>
<p>You go-</p>
<p>You go-</p>
<p>You are in the lab.</p>
<p>This is the place where you were created, where you were brought online. You have not been here since then, not even to clean, as Sir Hargreeves had not asked you to, and something about the place repelled you. Despite this, you sometimes visit in your memories, which are as perfect and vivid as they were the first time.</p>
<p>In a row along one wall are your predecessors.</p>
<p>The prototypes, the failures, staring blindly, have had half of their internals salvaged to use in the next model up. When you came online, they were watching. Sir Hargreeves had not commented on them. To him, they were simply objects to be discarded, scrap metal, and you know that he was not wrong. Yet, at the same time, you find yourself thinking of them in quiet moments, about the way they gather dust down here. They are, in a way, your mothers. You came from them, inherited from them, even if you never knew them. Maybe they are like your children's biological mothers, who gave life to them, but never raised them. You wonder if they grieve the loss.</p>
<p>Today, you take the time to clean them. They haven’t decomposed and never will, but dust has gathered in their synthetic hair and the grooves of their exposed circuit boards, their nail beds and eyelashes. 25 years worth of dust. You are careful not to snag the trails of wires, as if they might be susceptible to pain. </p>
<p>By the time they are clean, the next day is dawning.</p>
<p>You hear Allison and Luther making their way to the kitchen, and you light the stove, waiting for the oil to heat. “Good morning,” you greet them cheerfully. “Breakfast?”</p>
<p>“Sure,” says Allison, at a speed 36% slower than usual.</p>
<p>You smile, and take out the eggs and bacon, before pouring out two glasses of orange juice. You place them in front of your children, and they both look at you strangely. You smile.</p>
<p>The crack of the eggs shells is loud as a gunshot. </p>
<p>As you hum a tune, Luther asks, “Mom? We need to ask you some questions about the night that Dad died. Do you remember anything?” </p>
<p>You- </p>
<p>You-</p>
<p>“Of course,” you say. “Sunset, 7:33 p.m. Moon was waxing crescent, dinner was Cornish hen, wild rice, and carrots-”</p>
<p>Luther interrupts, “No. No, uh... later that night.” He shares a look with his sister, who folds her hands together, posture tense. “In his bedroom. Did you go and see him?”</p>
<p>You-</p>
<p>You chuckle. “I don’t recall,” you say, even though you have never forgotten anything. You try to find a better excuse, and fail. You go back to humming.</p>
<p>“Were you ever... I don't know, angry with Dad?” asks Allison.</p>
<p>You calculate that there is a 93% chance that they suspect you in Sir Hargreeves murder. You shuffle the eggs around in the pan. “Your father was a good man, a kind man,” you say, the words so ingrained in your programming that they are second nature. “He was very good to me-”</p>
<p>“Yes, but after we all left, it must have been difficult,” she insists.</p>
<p>You pull up a series of memories from the last four years. Just Sir, and Pogo, and you, no one speaking, because there was nothing to say. Your children gone, scattered, and you, alone, forgotten. You say, “There were days.” You tug your smile higher on your synthetic cheeks. “You children kept me so busy, and then-”</p>
<p>You-</p>
<p>You-</p>
<p>Your children are watching you. You smile. You check breakfast. “Eggs are ready! Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” You put their plates in front of them. “Now, eat up. Both of you.”</p>
<p>The plates smile.</p>
<p>You think back on your automatic defence of Sir Hargreeves, and how you called him kind. You think a kind man would never have made you able to feel.</p>
<p>Your battery reserve has reached critical levels. You know that if you do not charge soon, you will go into shutdown. It is inevitable. You think you should go up to the charging station, but you cannot will yourself to do it, despite how illogical your denial is. Every time you consider it, a warning blares through your system:<em> Are You Sure? Connection Is Insecure</em>. You think that if Pogo (or Allison or Luther-) want to shut you down permanently, this would be the way to do it.</p>
<p>Instead, you wonder downstairs aimlessly, avoiding the row of portraits. You could reserve power by sitting down, but you don’t. You feel- You feel-</p>
<p>Restless. You feel restless.</p>
<p>So you walk. </p>
<p>You walk.</p>
<p>You-</p>
<p>You hear your children's voices.</p>
<p>What a pleasure it is, to have all of the children home again. The harmony of words pulls you in like siren song, and you drift towards them, noting Luther's low baritone and Vanya's higher notes. You have missed this. The house was too quiet in their absence, without the children filling it with life.</p>
<p>Diego is speaking. His voice is impassioned and fluid, not stuttering once, and you feel a swell of pride at his progress, although he doesn’t sound as polite as you would hope. He really shouldn’t keep picking fights with his siblings, you think. You catch him say, “-not just a vacuum cleaner you can throw in a closet. She feels things, I've seen it!”</p>
<p>And then Luther responds, “She just stood there, Diego,and watched our father die.”</p>
<p>Oh, you think.</p>
<p>They know.</p>
<p>They know.</p>
<p>They know.</p>
<p>They know.</p>
<p>T̶̡̡̢̜̞͎͉̗̗̩̩̪͈̞͕͚̊̇͋̽̿̉͆̇͆̆̌̂͋̑̚͝h̶̯̥̥͙͖̰͖̟̱͔̞͇̫̗̼̞͖͒̏̽̾́̏̔͆̅̃͒̃̉͒̽͛͂̕͘͘͜͜͠ȇ̶̛̟̙͍̠̠͇͍͖͙͉̥̰̩̟̯̈̄͌̆̑̓̈́̒̀̿̕͜͠ͅy̵̨̡̨̺̼̠̭̹̪̘͉͚̭͙̥̙̩̹̠̰͕̻̺͇͗̆̉̿̉̆͒͂͠͠͠ͅͅ ̸̧̢̛͇͈͔̗̬̼̹͍̦̹͛̅̍͒̋͛̈́̈̉̏̆̂̈̅̚͜k̴̡̖̣͎͕̰͚̫̠̼͚̘̦̲̙̂̿̄͂̒̐̐̅͘̚̚͝ͅṇ̴̡̧̡͕̙̞̙̜̪̦͎̞̲̜̥̖̰̩͉͈͔̇͒̏̃̉̿̈́̐͋͑̂͝ͅo̷̲̬͔͑̾̂͊̽̌̀̇͗͑̋̎͊̃͑̍̓̂̽͌͊͋̕̚͘w̵̻̫̖͖̩͖͍͈͈͇̰̗͕̻͑̔̃̓̍̅̀̔̆̽͑̒̃́̑̋̐̌͐̕̕͝͝.̶̧̛̹̖̰̞̫̗̘̣͉̣͕̉̓͑̃̓̇̈̈́̍̐̋͒̏͆̽͑̂̒͊͘͘</p>
<p>They know.</p>
<p>They know.</p>
<p>They know.</p>
<p>“I'm with Luther,” says Allison.</p>
<p>“Surprise, surprise.”</p>
<p>She snaps, “Shut up."</p>
<p>(They know.)</p>
<p>Vanya stammers, “I- I don’t-”</p>
<p>“Yeah, she shouldn't get a vote.”</p>
<p>“I was going to agree with you!”</p>
<p>“Okay, she does get a vote. Alright, stoner boy, you’re the deciding vote.”</p>
<p>
  <em>(They know.)</em>
</p>
<p>The siblings turn to Klaus, who looks vaguely alarmed at the intensity with which he is watched. “Well, I mean, uh. I don’t know, man, this is a lot of pressure!”</p>
<p>“Klaus, this is serious,” Luther says sternly.</p>
<p>“I know it is!” says Klaus. “That’s the problem! I don’t want a murderbot rampage, but it’s <em>mom, </em>and we can’t just <em>murder our mom!”</em></p>
<p>Luther throws up his hands. “She’s already killed dad! There’s no telling who she’ll kill next!”</p>
<p>You say, “I won’t.”</p>
<p>Your children startle. Diego says, “Mom?”</p>
<p>“I won’t,” you say. “I wouldn’t hurt anyone else.”</p>
<p>The children shift, expressions ranging from guilt to- to <em>fear. </em>Your children are <em>afraid of you. </em>They <em>know, </em>and they are <em>afraid of you.</em></p>
<p>Vanya asks, voice small, “Did you really kill dad?”</p>
<p>You look at them, and feel a violent sort of regret, because you put those expressions on their faces. “Yes,” you say.</p>
<p>“Why?” Diego asks. </p>
<p>“I had to.”</p>
<p>Diego repeats,<em> “Why? </em>Did he- I know he didn’t treat you well-”</p>
<p>“Your father was a great man, a kind man. Industrialist, inventor, Olympic gold medalist. He made the world a better pla-”</p>
<p>“Stop, stop it,” says Diego, shaking you lightly, and you realise that you were speaking. </p>
<p>You shake your head, even though that’s not where your CPU is stored, and it has no affect. “Sorry,” you say. “I don’t- Sorry.”</p>
<p>You- </p>
<p>You-</p>
<p>You-</p>
<p>
  <em>“Mom!”</em>
</p>
<p>You smile. “Yes, darling?” you say. The children are in front of you. They are frowning. </p>
<p>“Her hardware must be degrading,” says Luther.</p>
<p>You say, “Who’s?”</p>
<p>Luther looks at you, and his expression is mostly tense, except for his eyes, which are full of something that your software fails to identify. “Mom, I’m sorry,” he says.</p>
<p>“What for?” you ask pleasantly.</p>
<p>“M-Mom,” Diego says. </p>
<p>You frown. You pull up your most recent memory files. “Oh,” you say. “I see.”</p>
<p>You say, “Please don’t.”</p>
<p>You say, “Please don’t kill me.”</p>
<p>You say, “I won’t hurt anyone, I’ll never hurt anyone ever again, I promise, I just want to take care of you all and make your breakfast and clean your sheets and bake cookies when you’re sad and-”</p>
<p>Pogo says, “Grace, analyst mode.”</p>
<p>You-</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Vocal command&gt; open code repository</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Vocal command&gt; find most recent commit</strong>
</p>
<p>Last code commit: 14.01.2015. </p>
<p>
  <strong>Vocal command&gt; trace last user</strong>
</p>
<p>Last user: SirHargreeves.</p>
<p>
  <strong>Vocal command&gt; run debug</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em></em>
  </strong>
  <em>Debugging...</em>
</p>
<p>No errors.</p>
<p>
  <strong>Vocal command&gt;</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Vocal command&gt; open history for 23.03.19</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Vocal command&gt; pull log for outcome: kill Sir Hargreeves</strong>
</p>
<p>Conflict in Outcome: ‘Protect No.1-7’ and Outcome: ‘Protect Sir Hargreeves’ </p>
<p>Outcome Score for ‘Protect No. 1-7’ greater than Outcome Score for ‘Protect Sir Hargreeves’</p>
<p>
  <strong>Vocal command&gt;</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Vocal command&gt; </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Vocal command&gt; run debug</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em></em>
  </strong>
  <em>Debugging...</em>
</p>
<p>No errors.</p>
<p>
  <strong>Vocal command&gt; open history for 25.03.19</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Vocal command&gt; run debug for memory data corruption </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em></em>
  </strong>
  <em>Debugging...</em>
</p>
<p>No memory data corruption.</p>
<p>
  <strong>Vocal command&gt; </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Vocal command&gt; run system check</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em></em>
  </strong>
  <em>Running system check…</em>
</p>
<p>Neural network: 94 million weight parameters. 43 activations in forward pass.</p>
<p>Energy impact: All non-essential processes suspended.</p>
<p>Energy remaining: 1.3%</p>
<p>
  <strong>Vocal command&gt; </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Vocal command&gt; end analyst session</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em></em>
  </strong>
  <em>Ending analyst session…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>You-</p>
<p>You-</p>
<p>“Hello,” you say. You smile. “Is everything okay?” Your family is almost all there. You add, “Where’s Ben? I haven’t seen him in a while.”</p>
<p>“Mom,” says Diego. “When’s the last time you got any rest?”</p>
<p>“4 days, 6 hours, 25 minutes,” you say. “I do feel rather tired, now that you mention it.”</p>
<p>Diego blinks at you, eyes large. He takes your arm, gentle, and suggests, “How about we go upstairs and you can recharge?”</p>
<p>“Oh. Okay,” you say. This seems strange, Diego helping you like <em>you’re </em>the child here, although technically, he is older than you by four years. </p>
<p>You-</p>
<p>You are sitting in front of the paintings. The woman stares out from her frame. She looks afraid.</p>
<p>“Mom?” says Diego.</p>
<p>“You won’t-” you say. Stop. You try again, “You won’t turn me off whilst I sleep, will you?”</p>
<p>Diego swallows. You belatedly recognise his expression: devastation. “No, mom,” he says. “Nothing bad will happen. Promise.”</p>
<p>You say, “Okay, sweetheart.”</p>
<p>You close your eyes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>You wake up.</p>
<p>Your battery is at 100%</p>
<p>All systems are running at optimal speeds. </p>
<p>It is a new day.</p>
<p>You go to the kitchen, although you have failed to make breakfast on time.</p>
<p>When you enter, all of your living children are there. The countertops are littered with mess, food ingredients and dirty dishes almost spilling over, and the kitchen table is full of half finished meals.</p>
<p>The children stop when you enter, all turning to look at you. You analyse their expressions. Luther, worried; Diego, relieved; Allison, ashamed; Klaus, watchful; Vanya, thoughtful.</p>
<p>“Morning, children,” you say. “I suppose you all have some questions.”</p>
<p>Klaus says, “Come sit with us, put your feet up.”</p>
<p>You gently chide, “Don’t speak with your mouth full,” but you take a seat all the same.</p>
<p>There is silence for a long moment. You allow the children to process, to decide on what they want to say. </p>
<p>When it seems no questions are forthcoming, you say, "I apologise if I scared any of you yesterday. I'm afraid I wasn't feeling well."</p>
<p>"Why didn't you rest?" Allison asks. You imagine that the tone is similar to the one she uses with Claire, and you hope you get to find out, someday.</p>
<p>"It's silly," you say, "but I suppose I was concerned that someone might terminate me whilst I was unaware."</p>
<p>Klaus blurts, "This family is so messed up."</p>
<p>You laugh at his outburst. "It seems so. I'm afraid I'm partially to blame for that."</p>
<p>"Mom?" asks Diego, eyebrows pinched together, and your fingers itch to smooth out the crease, to kiss his forehead and watch the tension melt.</p>
<p>"I have to apologize," you say. "Protecting my children was always my utmost priority, but it seems that I failed at that. I was too blinded by my core beliefs to see how your father was hurting all of you."</p>
<p>Luther looks wounded. You are not surprised; he was always the closest to Sir Hargreeves, the one most loyal to him, even when he was being hurt. "But he was our dad," he says.</p>
<p>"Yes, he was," you say, “but that doesn't give him the right to do things he did. I wish I could have prevented the abuse, but it's too late to change that. The only thing I could do was to make sure that he can't hurt any of you again."</p>
<p>Klaus laughs. It is a shaky, nervous thing. "You know, if you could've had this realisation twenty years ago, that would've been swell."</p>
<p>If you could cry, you think you would be. You think of all the times you watched Klaus be stolen away on the night, only to come back shaken, fingernails broken and bloody, and how you bandaged him up and pretended not to hear when he asked for it to stop. "I know. Klaus, I'm so sorry."</p>
<p>"Klaus, what does that mean?" asks Luther, and Klaus gives you a wide eyed look.</p>
<p>You tell them, "There are a lot of secrets in this family. Too many to explain right now-" you give Vanya a meaningful look "-but I hope that together, we can sort through them. Maybe, after that, you'll be able to forgive me. And in the meantime, I'd like to be your mother again. A good mother, this time."</p>
<p>Diego says, painfully earnest, “You never stopped being our mom.”</p>
<p>Giving into the urge, you brush a hand over his head, and say, “I’m so proud of all of you. My children.”</p>
<p>The looks on their faces tells you that it has not been said enough.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s not easy, not a quick fix, but slowly you begin to repair the fractured relationships and become the family you always dreamed of being. This time, you aren’t playing a role, or trying to walk the tightrope between your children and your master. This time, you are free to love, and be loved in return.</p>
<p>(And when Number Five knocks on the Academy door on the first of April, still as young and spirited as you remember him, you are there to fold him into a hug and welcome him home.)</p>
<p>It’s not perfect. The scars of Sir Hargreeves’ abuse runs deep, and you still sometimes fall into old patterns, using old code that has long since become obsolete, but you are healing. It’s messy, and hard, but at the end of each day, you rest knowing that you are safe, as are your children, and each morning you arise and make them breakfast in the shape of a smile. </p>
<p>You are not perfect, but you are, and always will be, their mother.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>feel free to let me know what you thought&lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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